


Words for Snow

by carryokee



Category: Days of Our Lives
Genre: Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, POV Second Person, Schmoop, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryokee/pseuds/carryokee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's the words you don't say out loud that mean the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words for Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: second person POV, unapologetic schmoopiness

“Will.”

“Keep ’em closed.”

 _“Will.”_ You squirm under his weight and feel his knees squeeze against your hips, trying to hold you still. You’re trying, you really are, but the press of his naked skin against yours is making you restless. And more than a little aroused, if the half-hard state of your cock is any indication. Six years together and he still manages to make you crazy.

“Hold still or you’ll ruin it.” He splays his fingers over your chest and pushes you down. “I’m almost done.”

Your belly jerks under his ministrations. “It tickles.”

Suddenly his hand is on your face, his thumb pressing gently under your eye and your eyes fly open on instinct at the touch. He’s leaning over you, your chests nearly touching, and in his right hand, an inch from your face, is the tip of the black Sharpie he’s been using – with your grudging consent – to draw on your body over the last several minutes.

“Stop whining or I’ll give you a mustache,” he says, smiling, his breath warm against your lips.

You meet his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.” Except you know he would, given half the chance. That’s part of what you love about him.

He raises an eyebrow. “With handlebars,” he adds. He tilts his head, scrutinizing your face as if he doesn’t know every last detail of every last inch of your body by heart. “And maybe a goatee.”

You grin up at him. “If I’d known you had such a thing for facial hair, I would’ve stopped shaving months ago. Grown a beard like one of those Duck Dynasty guys.”

“Go ahead,” he says. He moves his hips and you can feel that he’s aroused, too, which just makes you that much harder. “You know how much I love your stubble. A beard would be even better, I think.” He presses his lips against your cheek. “Softer against my skin, you know?” he whispers. “Yummier.”

You snort a laugh. “Yummier?”

You feel his smile curve against your skin. “Mm hm.” Then he kisses your cheek and lifts his head to look at you. “On second thought, I think I’d miss your face.”

“You think?”

“Well,” he says, blue eyes dancing, “I’ve never been without it long enough to have the chance to really miss it, so I’m not sure.”

You bring your hand up, brushing your fingers across his cheek. You try to smile, but you don’t quite make it. “Just the thought of never seeing yours again…” You swallow the rest of the words down, unable to say them.

He just looks at you for a long time, emotions skimming across his eyes like clouds across the sky. Then he finally kisses you, deep and slow, his tongue sliding against yours, his fingers in your hair. You press your hands against him, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours, the way he reacts to your touch, pushing up against your palms as he rolls his hips slowly. You suddenly want nothing more than to be inside him, to feel his warmth around you, to lose yourself in him until the rest of the world fades away and all that’s left is the two of you, joined together, sharing breath.

You hear something clatter against the nightstand and you suddenly remember the Sharpie Will was holding, what he’d been doing with it, and you’re briefly curious about what it is he’s drawn all over your skin. But then he rolls you over and pulls his knees up until they’re pressed against your ribs, the edges of his teeth grazing your jaw, and you don’t care anymore, you really don’t.

Afterwards, he’s lying on top of you, running his fingers through your sweaty hair, his nose tucked behind your ear. You can feel his breath against your neck, the even rhythm of his chest with each inhalation, and you think it would be impossible to be any happier than you are at this moment. Other people might say they’re happy, you think, but they’re only deluding themselves because they’ve never had _this_ , and they never will because this, this is yours, yours and Will’s, and no one else will ever even come close. You almost feel sorry for them.

“I think we’re dead and we just don’t know it yet.”

You smile at that, staring detachedly up at the ceiling fan, watching its blades slowly circle. You drag your hand through the cooling sweat on Will’s back, your fingertips tracing the bumps of his spine, down and up and down again, over and over and over. He shivers slightly and sighs.

The map of your life is on his skin, you think, and all roads lead to home.

You fall asleep.

You wake up under the blankets, but can’t for the life of you remember how you got there. Will’s pressed against your back, softly snoring away. You don’t want to move, just want to dip this moment in amber and preserve it for eternity like so many countless others, but your bladder’s full to bursting and the more you try to ignore it, the worse it gets. So you reluctantly slide out from beneath the covers and pad naked to the bathroom and stand in the semidarkness relieving yourself. You can hear Will shift in the bed just outside the door, the sheets whispering softly, and you wonder if he knows you’re not there, if he misses you the same way you miss him when he’s not next to you, even when you’re asleep.

You move to the sink to wash your hands and that’s when you finally see it, its reflection peeking back at you in the mirror, barely discernible in the dim light: Will’s forgotten masterpiece drawn carefully across your skin. You switch on the light to see it better and feel your mouth fall open.

It’s not a drawing at all. It’s a question, or most of one.

**WILL YOU MARRY M**

You stare at it, reading the words over and over again, tracing each letter with your fingers until you realize you’re not even seeing them anymore, that you can’t through the blur of your tears. You were wrong before, you realize, because it _is_ possible, you’re even happier now than in any other time you can remember with the possible exception of the first time you and Will made love. But happy doesn’t seem like strong enough a word – nor does any word in any of the three languages you know, for that matter – to adequately describe quite how you feel at this moment.

You think, oddly enough, about snow. You remember reading somewhere that the Inuit have over 400 words for snow and you think that sounds about right because hey, there’s more than one kind of snow and one word couldn’t possibly be adequate to describe all the nuances of something so complex. It’s the same with this, this feeling you’re having, a weird hybrid of happiness and terror, exhilaration and anxiety, and a contentment so complete you could die right now without a single regret.

But you won’t die, not just yet, because your life has just restarted, you’re Sonny 2.0 now, and you feel like you’re going to live forever.

Will’s still asleep when you walk back into the bedroom, conveniently sprawled out on his back like he knows what you’re about to do and wants to make it as easy as possible for you. You find the marker on the nightstand, wedged between the lamp and the alarm clock. It’s uncapped and you hope it isn’t too dried out to use. Just one word, that’s all you need it for.

Slipping onto the bed, you knee across to Will and carefully pull the sheet down all the way to his hips. You watch the slow rise and fall of his chest for a moment, the even thump of his pulse in the hollow of his throat. Life, you think. His. Yours. It’s all the same.

Smiling, you gently press the tip of the Sharpie against his belly and carefully trace out your answer across his skin in backwards block letters. Then you snuggle up beside him, pull up the covers, and fall asleep to the sound of his heart beneath your ear.

When you wake up again, he’s standing next to the bed just looking at you. In the orange half-light from the bathroom, you can see the shine of tears on his face. Across his belly is a single three-letter word.

**YES**

You meet his eyes and smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> The bit about the Inuit having over 400 words for snow is a myth. According to language experts, even taking into consideration the many different Inuit languages, there are still only about a dozen words used to describe snow. Just like in English.


End file.
